Up on stage, as she twirled and lifted and high-kicked, Roz noticed him too. How could she not? The lights were up in the entire theater and, of all the well-dressed, well-groomed men sitting in the audience, he stood out. Mainly because she’d never seen him in the many years she’d been auditioning around the horn. But also because of him. Of the image he projected. From his thick swath of dark brown hair pushed back from a face so symmetrical and strong that calling him good looking didn’t quite capture it, to his green eyes that dazzled even from where she stood, he stood out. Not that he was some perfect looking angel to her. He wasn’t. One of his eyes appeared to be lazy as hell, and he had that Kirk Douglas-Cary Grant cleft in his chin thing going on that she never found all that attractive. But whatever animal magnetism was, and whatever sensuality was: he was it. He was a freaking contrail of sex sitting there, she thought.
He was also the only man in the theater who seemed to be assessing, not just her body, but her. He was actually looking at her. It was unnerving, given that she was trying to perform, but it was pleasing at the same time.
But just as she was getting into her full groove, just as she thought she and Betsy were clicking with their well-rehearsed routine, Barry brought down the hammer. Broadway producers used various terms to get their point across, but two were very familiar to Roz: Wait or Next. Wait was good. That meant they wanted you to stick around. You still stood a chance to get the gig. Next was the death knell. They wanted you to get lost. Your chances were up.
When Barry yelled “Next,” even before their performance was over, Roz and Betsy and their collective hearts sank. They both had so much hope riding on this chance that it hurt to the core when they were rejected. But they were consummate professionals. They knew, if they ever wanted to be a part of another casting call, they could not delay. They thanked the producers, thanked the director, and got the hell off his stage.
Backstage, they made their way to the dressing room without conversation. Rejection had a way of killing good will. They walked pass the Wait girls who still had that gleam in their eyes, and the Next girls like them, who looked stunned and dazed that their considerable talent had been judged, once again, to not be good enough. Some were already dressed and were leaving the theater. Others just hung around. The devastation on their faces was as alive as their heartbeats.
Roz wasn’t devastated. She’d been in the business too long to let one audition get her down. But she was greatly disappointed. She needed this gig, not for the money or even the exposure, but for the validation. It had been nearly a year since she’d received a thumbs up on any gig anywhere. A year. Even off-off Broadway productions were turning her down. It was beginning to feel as if the ship had sailed, and she had already missed the boat.
“Maybe next time,” Betsy said when they returned to the dressing room and began changing back into their street clothes. Betsy had her porn career. She was disappointed, but not nearly as disappointed as Roz. “There’s always a next time.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Roz said, although a part of her somehow knew that this was it for her. She was nearing her last audition.
But by the time they had taken off their leotards and Roz had put back on her skirt, her tucked in sleeveless blouse, and her heels, Greg, the stagehand, was entering the room.
“Ladies room, Greg!” one of the other dressing ladies yelled at him. He ignored her.
“Roz? Bess? Come with me,” he said.
The rest of the Next girls looked at Roz and Betsy enviously, but Roz and Betsy looked at each other with a sudden flash of hope in their eyes. Maybe Barry changed his mind.
“We need to change back into our tards?” Betsy asked.
“No,” Greg said confidently. “Come with me.”
Roz smiled, grabbed her satchel and flung it across her shoulder, and then happily, along with Betsy, followed Greg. He led them through a corridor that led them, not to center stage where they had expected to go, but further backstage and then up the stairs to one of the private rooms.
At the door of the room, Greg turned and looked at them. “It’s not Broadway,” he said, “but at least it’s a gig. Right? Break a leg!”
He left them puzzled.
Betsy looked at Roz. “What in the world?” she asked.
But Roz knew the answer was on the other side of that door. She wasn’t answering any questions that a turn of the knob could easily explain. She therefore turned the knob, looked at her friend as if to silently wish her good luck too, and they nervously, excitedly, entered the private space.
CHAPTER TWO
When Roz opened the door, and saw that it was none other than that dreamboat from the audition, she became even more hopeful. Was he new to Broadway? Or was he Hollywood? Did he see something in them that he could use in his own production? It happened before. Not to Roz. Nothing remarkable like that had ever happened to Roz. But she’d heard about it.
And with that hope in mind, she and Betsy gladly stayed.